Lady Smith Lock and Key Pt. 08

Long delay for this chapter. Work, what else.

I'd like to thank Lastman as always for the notes and editing.

The 2021 Readers Choice awards is currently voting. I'm nominated for best Novel/Novella, so if you got time stop by and check out the nominees.

-Lady Smith-

Tuesday - May 4, 2021

My eyes flutter open, and I think they're still closed because it's so dark. I try to rub my eyes, but my wrists are bound. When I try to squirm, I discover so are my ankles. Something throws my entire body up, and my head slams into the bottom of something. I scream, but my mouth is stuffed with duct tape wrapped all the way around my head. I hear the rumble and feel the vibration of an engine.

This is how I die. I can hear Grandpa's voice.

'Oh death

'Oh death

'Won't you spare me over, til another year.'

He sang that to himself all the time. Grandpa never listened to the radio when we drove from job to job. Sometimes I thought he didn't know I could hear him. I asked him about it once. The song he was singing. A Conversation with Death. He said he sang it during Vietnam. He'd sit in his foxhole, or patrol the jungle, humming the tune to himself, as if he was pleading with the Grim Reaper. Asking Death to spare him until he got home.

Grandpa wasn't afraid to die. When he was diagnosed with cancer, he didn't go through any treatment. It was caught so late it wouldn't have mattered anyway. The day he got the news, he never sang it again.

'Well what is this, that I can't see

With ice cold hands takin hold of me'

The car comes to a stop, and I can hear more engines around me. Louder, deeper engines. Motorcycles. The door to the car opens, and I feel the weight of the car shift as the driver exits and shuts the door. The trunk pops, giving me a sliver of light. Not sunlight. Soft white light from a bulb. The trunk opens and I flinch away from the harsh light blasting me in the face. I look back over my shoulder, and see a silhouette shrouded from the light reach across and cut my binds with a knife.

"Get out," the voice says, and I gingerly climb out of the trunk. I reach around my head and remove the tape, hissing and grunting as it pulls my hair. I cough out the first breath of fresh air I've tasted in who knows how long.

My eyes are adjusting to the light slowly. First, they're dark shadows in the light. Then pixelized colors in the general shape of a human, like a video with poor resolution. Finally, they're people. The clearer they became, the worse I felt about being able to see again.

Terrence Novak is standing to my side, openly displaying his anger and frustration. Like a child who was just scolded or whipped for disobeying. Titus Novak, the Caesar, is the one who cut my binds and is pacing, figuring out what to do.

"We weren't ready, and you pulled this shit?" Titus asks. Terrence remains rigid and looks away to exhale. "You ever heard the expression, don't break the law when you're breaking the law?"

"No one saw it..." Terrence starts, but that's as far as he gets.

"...you stabbed a cop and shot a woman in the face boy. The cop was watching her, because of us. It's not going to take much for them to put two and two together."

"She was about to run," Terrence says, pointing at me. Titus turns to me, and I look at my toes.

"That true?" he asks, and I don't react. "Lady?" I remain silent, and Terrence walks over to me and grabs my arm.

"You were running scared..."

"...let her go..."

"...you need to stop letting her go!" Terrence shouts, harshly flinging me away and taking a swing at Titus. It connects on his jaw, but the old man is still a bull. He grabs Terrence's arm and throws him to the ground without visible effort. Terrence tries to get to his feet but is kicked in the stomach so hard his body is propelled into the air and spins a full rotation, landing onto his chest.

"I've had enough of your reckless bullshit! Teach him," Titus orders, and the three other men begin to kick and punch him senseless.

"I'm going to ask you again. Forget about him, he's indisposed. Were you running?" Titus asks. I slowly nod, and he sighs while shaking his head.

"The cops are closing in. They offered me a deal again. I didn't take it, but it sounded like they're about to pull up the noose you didn't notice they slipped around your neck."

"And you decided to not tell me, and save your own ass?" Titus asks, and I look down again. "Not gonna lie, it's the smart play. You're a small fry. They don't care if the minnows escape the net. But, big fish, eat minnows."

I'm hit. I'm hit so hard I slam into the back of the car and bounce over it. My body crashes next to the rear tire. He hit me in the diaphragm, and now I can't breathe. I writhe on the ground, kicking my feet like a toddler having a tantrum.

"I've thought for a long time on whether you were ever worth our deal. Sure, we got some decent scores from you. Retrospect, I wouldn't do that again. If I could do it again, you'd suck so much dick you'd need your stomach pumped.

"That's always me. Always too generous. Always too fucking nice," Titus says. I hear his footsteps walk around the car. I flinch when he crouches over me. Him smashing my face into my steering wheel was 'being nice'.

"Here's the amended plan. I've called my contacts, saying it needs to happen now. They're scrambling, and some hands need some fiscal lube, but it's gliding right in all the same. You go into the building, kill the security, and we drive the cars straight onto a truck. Then we put a bullet in your head in the parking lot."

I start crying, snot and drool streaming from my face, sticking to the ground in one unbroken stream.

"Now before you think about tipping someone off, just know the bullet is mercy. If you try anything, you're going to wish for the bullet. If Terrence can get it up after his lesson, I'm not going to stop him. Or anyone else. That's all I'm promising you now. A fast death. That's all you're getting in return."

'Oh I am Death, none can excel

I open the doors to heaven or hell.'

--

-Carl Reed-

What a nasty scene. One dead victim behind the counter of the diner. Blood everywhere. That's the good news. Blood is easy to test. We just need to test all the different samples from different areas to make sure it's all one person, or multiple people. We found over one hundred unique prints across the entire restaurant. We called in support from the state, and now an entire team from the Major Crimes Section is helping with the sheer volume of prints.

DNA testing only takes a few hours. We ran the DNA from five locations. I predict they'll all be from the victim just from their location and the blood type of A positive. I get the results five hours later at seven in the morning.

I rub my eyes and look at the screen. I focus away the noise around me, ignoring the ten other analysts capturing and running different prints. The detectives will use that and start clearing alibies within a few hours. No match in Montana. If her DNA was never recorded, can't do much about that, but it does match the DNA from the body. It confirms it's her blood.

I always do my due diligence and run it against the FBI's national database. I send that along and start helping with the prints.

We get some interesting hits on the prints. Nothing conclusive, but the diner does seem to have a large population of reformed felons and night shift workers as its patrons. We ran them all against state and national. Nothing conclusive, just a giant cluster fuck.

My desk phone rings, and I leave my work to answer it.

"Dr. Reed."

"This is Special Agent Shelby with the FBI Organized Crime Department," the man replies. What the hell? "You sent out a DNA check a few hours ago. We got a match that interests me."

"For Carroll Lewis?" I ask, and he confirms. "She runs a restaurant here, what interest is she to the FBI?"

"Check your email, and tell me if this woman is your victim," he says. I wait for the message to populate and open the attachment. The woman is gorgeous. She certainly looks a lot like the victim, but Carroll was more subdued. Her beauty wasn't in your face like a taunt. This woman wanted you to know you couldn't have her. It's the same person, just at completely different times in their lives. So different they're hardly the same anymore.

"Is that her?" Shelby asks.

"Yeah, it's her. What's going on?" I hear a click and look at the receiver. "Hello?"

"Holy shit," a voice says behind me.

"What?" I ask, placing the phone down and looking at one of the Major Crimes analysts. He waves me over and I look at his computer screen. It's showing possible hits on a print pulled from the restaurant. I see the face of blonde beauty, and a notification to alert the FBI if this individual ever resurfaced.

'Extremely dangerous. Do not attempt to apprehend. Observe and report.'

"What hornets' nest did we just kick?"

--

-Dinah-

I have the man hanging by his wrists. He's so frightened he's pissed himself and I'm marinating in a musky aroma. He's a large man with a harsh outward appearance intended to strike immediate fear in those he torments. It's amazing how fast a bully becomes a bitch when the power dynamic is no longer in his favor.

How I got him here was easy. Men never expect a delicate looking thing like me to be a threat. In a fair fight, he could easily overpower me. I don't fight fair. A taser and a well-placed kick in the groin evens out the odds.

He was flying his colors outside a bar, leaning against a row of bikes, making sleight of hand transactions with people who duck in and out of expensive cars. I make myself look like prey. A young lady stumbling out of a bar, fumbling with her keys and trying to find her car in a drunken stupor. I feel him start to follow me as I enter the parking lot. He's going to claim to be my white knight, offer me a ride home, and then ride me.

"You need help?" I hear, and hiccup while shaking my head. "I can get you home."

I pop the trunk of my car as he moves closer. "Hit the wrong button?" he asks and is now next to the trunk. My keys slip from my hand, and while he reaches for them, he feels 50,000 volts. His torso collapses into the trunk, and I let off long enough to throw his feet inside. I zap him again and slam the lid down.

No shortage of places to be isolated in Montana. I found this abandoned auto garage a year ago. Anyone walking around this neighborhood hears you scream, they keep walking.

I back the car into the garage and close the bay door manually. I open the trunk, ready for him to lunge, and he's jolted again. I keep it on him for so long his body is too tense to move once I stop. I handcuff his wrists and zip tie his ankles and remove his boots and socks. I drag him out and slip the chain of the cuffs over the car lift. With a push of a button, I pull him up until only his big toes are touching the ground.

"You are fucking dead," he finally says. Every time he's tried to talk, he gets stunned. This is the first time I've let him finish a sentence. His initial defiance doesn't last long.

I say nothing and walk out of his view. He's struggles to peer over his shoulder until I walk back with a car battery. All color fades from his face as I touch the negative and positive to show it's the real deal. The snap of the sparks causes him to clench.

"Whatever it is, we can talk it out. Money? A family member bought from us and got hooked?" he pleads, trying to rationalize why this is about to happen to him.

"Who killed my mother," I ask, and he looks confused. I spark the two ends, and he recoils. "The woman from the diner last night. Who did it?"

"I don't know," he says. I place the clamps on his toes, and he seizes up. I let it cool off and do it again.

"I'm going to work my way up, Dante," I say, and he looks baffled I know his name. "I didn't just pick you out of a hat. Hardly anything goes on in your gang without you knowing. Who killed my mother?"

Dante is the bookkeeper for the 9^th Legion. It didn't take me long to get his name. Just asked around a few dark alleys for drugs and sports betting. Everyone gave me the same name. My mother wasn't supposed to happen that way. Someone messed up, and he knows who did. Everyone has gotten the memo to not talk to anyone. The last two Legion guys said they didn't know, but Dante would. Maybe they'll find those bodies someday.

"I figure my mother wasn't a target. Wrong place, wrong time. Don't care. You give me a name, and these don't reach your balls."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says, and I almost believe him. He might not know for sure, but he knows who would be capable of it. He knows who the loose cannon is.

"Let's say you don't know..."

"...I don't..." and I zap him quiet again.

"...but you know who could. You know who is dumb enough. Just give me the name of your friend who could kill a harmless woman for no good reason."

"I don't know..." and he's shocked until he loses control of his bladder and pisses himself.

"Who's the biggest liability?" I ask. "The guy who can't help himself. The one you always make someone go with him just to keep him in check." The clamps are at his thighs now. "I'm not on a time crunch, I can do this all day. Give me a name, I'll check it out. If it's wrong we start over, and in the meantime, you're still a piece of meat."

Dante is shaking his head, trying to think of something. A good guess or a passible lie.

"Mickie," he says. "We call him Cicero. He runs the garage outside the baseball stadium. He's batshit." They touch his balls this time. I keep them on for a good twenty seconds before letting off. "What the fuck! I told you!"

"You think I didn't do any research?" I ask. One of the other two gave me that name, and a twenty second search on a smart phone earned him a bullet in the kneecap. "Mickie 'Cicero' Young, was in prison for making kiddie porn. I say was, because he's dead. That's what happens when you go to prison for hurting kids. I got a whole list of names up here to filter out your answers." I touch my temple with my index finger. "Give me garbage and see what happens."

He's quiet, and I start moving the clamps in his direction again.

"Novak!" he shouts. "Fucking Novak! Terrence. The Centurion. He's only there because his uncle is the Caesar. Already done time for killing, and I've cleaned plenty of his messes."

"Terrence Novak, huh?" I ask, and he nods like a bobble head. "Where's he at?"

"On a job. Big one. Stealing cars."

"Lot of cars in Billings," I say and get close with the clamps.

"Big cars. Expensive. Royce. Porsche, that kind. From a rental place."

"I might be able to work with that," I say, and place the clamps down. His body relaxes and starts to sway in a small circle from balancing on his toes. I search on my phone for something matching that description. First result is a luxury vehicle driving service. "Kings Chariot ring a bell?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's the place," he says, frantically hoping I leave as promised. Hoping I leave him alone long enough for him to finesse his way out. I pocket my phone and pick up the clamps again. "No, no! I'm telling the truth!"

"And I believe you," I say. I clamp them to his toes and leave.

--

-Trixie Kirkpatrick-

Wednesday -- May 5, 2021

I've been sitting on the Legion's bar all night and into early morning. All night, just praying I get the slightest glimpse of them moving Lady Smith. Not like I can do anything about it if they try. I gave away my badge, and my service pistol. Nothing a privately owned weapon doesn't remedy, but that's not arrest authority. For now, I can observe and report.

Everything looks normal. At least, as normal as a biker bar for a violent criminal gang can be. Rows of motorcycles line the outside. I count seventeen bikes in total. I have them listed on a sheet of paper by color and manufacturer. Seventeen are here right now, but twenty-six have come and gone. Gang members are starting to show up at dawn, leaning against their rides and drinking bottled beer. Tattooed and short skirted women are running their hands under their vests.

The street suddenly becomes flooded with cars. BPD. FBI. Marshalls. Treasury Department. Yellowstone County Sheriff's. Everyone. Some cars obstruct the intersection so when the gang tries to jump on their bikes and ride off, they don't get to the end of the block before getting tackled. A swarm of law enforcement tsunamis into the bar. Soon several vans pull out in front, and the gang is corralled out of the building and into custody.

It takes them long enough to knock on my window and order me to leave. I just want to see it. All I want is for Lady Smith to be pulled out alive. I don't see it before I'm threatened with arrest.

--

Miles didn't make it. He slipped into a coma, and they pulled his plug. I don't hear it from the department. I see it on the news as I sit in my living room trying to stay updated. I've sent out texts to other detectives, but so far no one has written back. They're either busy, or they've been told not to. Miles took many unanswered questions with him. I can't deny he went out like a police officer. Died trying to help someone. The really bad news is that Ronda has put out an APB for Lady Smith. Not as a victim, but as a person of interest in Miles's murder. She's really going to drag this girl down just to close the case.

The news tells me there are currently arrest warrants out for Titus and Terrence Novak. Dante Hayes is listed as a person of interest. Good luck, Dante is an escape artist. I followed that guy around for months to no avail. A few more names are listed with their pictures, including Lady Smith. If she gets out of this alive, Ronda has ruined this girl's life forever even if she avoids charges. Lady's caution toward cooperating with us, is validating itself by the minute.

A knock echoes from my door, and I leave my couch to answer. I see a grey suit through the peephole and open the door.

"Detective Kirkpatrick?" The grey suit asks. Late fifties with hair that's more salt than pepper. Still in good shape, but he's past his prime. A lanyard around his neck says he's FBI. Why is this guy here?

"Formally known as," I say. "You?"

"Special Agent Shelby, FBI." He picks up his lanyard and puts it to my eye level. "You got some time for a few questions?"

"About?" I ask. He gestures to be let into my home and I oblige. I lead him into the dining room, and we take our seats.

"There were two murders in Billings early yesterday."

"Well aware. I'd say double homicide, but my LT didn't want to hear it before I threw my badger at her."

"Your department sent out DNA and prints to our national databases as part of the investigation. The results are alarming," he stresses. Interesting choice of words.

"Why the hell are you talking to me and not someone who still has a badge? Someone involved in those investigations."

"I have. Lieutenant Ronda Hoskins told me you knew the victims. You could shed some additional light. Do you recognize her?" he asks. He extends a picture of a drop-dead gorgeous women in a professional suit with short, bobbed hair. Too hot to not be a slut. I don't immediately know who it is, but it clicks after a few seconds. I always thought she tried to hide how attractive she was.

"Yeah. That's Carroll Lewis. She was the owner of the diner. The woman who was murdered. Damn, she was dynamite back in the day."

"Her?" he asks, extending a second picture. It's the mug shot of a beautiful blonde woman, early twenties, with the frightening eyes a rabid animal. It was the eyes that threw me off. I'm used to the eyes being nervous and sheltered. Shifty, looking back and forth for incoming threats. I'm used to prey, but this girl is a predator. I might have missed it if I hadn't seen the beast yesterday.